


The White Aurochs

by Nurdles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Secret Santa, Unresolved Romantic Tension, white aurochs, white elephant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurdles/pseuds/Nurdles
Summary: Written for Lena G for the Secret Santa gift exchange on JBO using the words Secret, Santa, and Office. This is part one of two wherein Jaime gets to play Santa at the annual Lannister Holdings gift exchange and has something special for Brienne. I am especially pleased to have drawn Lena for my giftee; she has always been a faithful commenter on writers' fanfics and is a delightful contributor to the JBO board, Thanks, Lena!





	1. The Party Begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lena_G](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena_G/gifts).



Jaime adjusted the wide black belt around his waist and turned from side to side, checking to be sure the fake gut beneath his red jacket hadn't slipped more to one side or the other. It hadn't. The heavy silicone belly was suspended by shoulder straps and secured with a series of hooks that reminded Jaime of the back strap on a bra. Fastening it had been something of a challenge; struggling with one's arms bent up behind him like pretzels had felt more like getting perp-walked than it did dressing for a party.

The costume piece might be even harder to take off later, If he ended up drinking too much. It occurred to him (again) that getting out of this bulbous belly would be altogether more fun if someone unsnapped it _for_ him. Jaime smiled into the mirror, he knew full well that the blond wench from Marketing wouldn't come anywhere near to undressing him, Santa belly or no. Still, it couldn't hurt to wish for what you want, especially at Christmas time.

Turning to look at himself from the back, Jaime checked the drape of the jacket, which hung down past his bum. This was one of two Santa suits that the company owned, the other being a size Cersei. Jaime sometimes wore his clothes snug, but not _that_ snug. Which left him with one choice: size Clegane.

The matching velvet pants, baggy and sweltering, made him look like a kid wearing his dad's PJs, if Tywin had worn anything other than grey, pinstriped, pressed silk ensembles to bed. _I'll probably sweat like crazy in this get-up, and no amount of Christmas Spice™ deodorant will be able to keep up,_ especially once he'd put the beard and hat on. 

Why Genna Lannister-Frey, CFO of Lannister Holdings, always insisted on full Santa regalia every damn year was a mystery to him. He suspected she simply got a chuckle out of seeing whoever won (lost) the drawing looking and feeling as silly and uncomfortable as possible. 

Tyrion, when he'd drawn the Old Saint Nik card a few years back, had been appalled at the prospect of dressing the part.  Too many jokes over the years referring to him as a Christmas Elf, Most often by Father, had made him determined to avoid playing into the stereotype. Appealing to Aunt Genna for mercy, he'd been allowed to use company funds to hire a tailor, and had shown up in the most stylish red suit ever to grace a Lannister Christmas party. _Correction: the company owns **three** Santa suits,_ Thought Jaime. Tyrion had also grown out his naturally ginger beard and declared himself "Young Kris Kringle." 

Genna never allowed Jaime to forgo the synthetic white tangle that he was now hooking over his ears. The argument that his natural beard lately grew in with patches of white, and could even be grown disgustingly long by the party, held no hippocras with his aunt. _He'd_ never accuse his aunt of playing favorites, but no one else in the company had escaped wearing the scratchy beard in their turn. Not even Cersei, though she'd raised hell and the beard had raised a rash, all over her jaw and chin.

Jaime swished and spit a mouthful of festive green mouthwash into the sink, before positioning the hat on his head at a semi-jaunty angle and stepping from the bathroom into his office. He opened the big side drawer on his desk and took out his Secret Santa gift. 

As luck (and just maybe some rigging) would have it, he'd drawn Brienne Tarth's name this year. Last year he'd gotten Head of Security Sandor Clegane, and it had taken weeks to pick out a White Aurochs gift for him. No one at the party had wanted to trade for the life-sized bobble-head bulldog, and Sandor had been stuck taking it home. 

The annual tradition among Lannister Holding's administrative staff was an original Terrible Tywin idea: Secret Santas mixed with a White Aurochs gift exchange. Secret Santas were expected to get their giftee a funny, yet personal, gift, and label it with the recipient's name. The evening of the party, everyone would draw a number, and that would determine the order in which the gifts would be handed out. 

It would be Jaime's job to deliver those gifts. He'd always thought that the SS/WA party had of all the worst elements of both games; the agony of choosing a personal gift and it's cruel partner, receiving a personal gift, combined with the likelihood of involuntarily surrendering a gift you like, for a matched set of Dothraki nesting dolls that smell like what they're made from. The whole thing was a giant pain in the ass and casually cruel, like most of Tywin's plans. Unlike most of them, it was also a hell of a lot of fun.

Jaime tucked the present, with "Brienne" written in block letters on the gift tag, into his capacious jacket. He left his office, passing by a warren of identical, unmanned cubicles where Lannister Holding's clerical employees spent their weekdays. Rounding the corner to the lift lobby, he could see that one car was about to depart and hailed it with a hearty, "Ho, ho, hold the lift!" and jogged to catch up.

Jaime heard the sound of feminine laughter, and a slender hand reached out to hold the lift doors open. A small group of women, all dressed in holiday finery, stepped back to make space for Jaime and his big belly. Margaery Tyrell pressed the close button with a long fingernail, painted sparkly and red. Jaime noticed that she'd also found a dress to match her nails.

The lift ascended with a gentle _whoosh_. The younger Stark sister, Arya, was leaning against the back wall, clutching a small purse shaped like a sow bug. Her short black dress was made of something reflective and had a poufy sort of skirt. Theon's sister, from shipping, was standing in the far corner, pretending to be absorbed with her phone, swiping across the screen with a blunt fingertip and not looking up. 

Jaime fruitlessly searched his memory for her name, which he'd need for the exchange later… _Yanni? Yoshi? Yara! **That** was her name. No, no, Yara is the wife. Asha. I got it! Shit, or was it Osha? Yeah, it's Osha. _ Jaime was relieved. He hated to come off as an asshole for not knowing one of his employee's names. Not in front of Brienne, anyway. 

He was just about to go stand in the back corner, next to the wench, when Margaery reached out and caught his beard, bringing him to an abrupt stop. The damn thing was hard enough to put on without her yanking it off him for _fun_. Jaime gently, but firmly, pulled it from her fingers. 

As she laughed at him, the Stark brat was leaning her head against his belly, "I think I felt it kick!" She beamed up at him, "When are you due?"

"December 25th?" Jaime said, and the kid laughed _. Since when are interns invited to company parties?_

Smiling, he looked over at Brienne, his eyes going up and then up some more. And then down. Shoes. _Heels_. That was why she seemed to be towering over him. More so than usual. He smirked and looked back at her face, his heart thumping in delight as she nodded at him, her lips, painted a reddish-pink, curving into a little smile. He'd never seen her in lipstick before.  

He shooed Margaery and Arya away. "I'm not finished with the big list yet, ladies," he warned, "You wouldn't want to end up in the naughty column, for pawing at Santa." Margaery batted her eyelashes, Arya rolled her eyes, and he heard Theon's sister snort from her corner. Jaime went to stand beside Brienne. 

"An odd threat," Brienne said quietly, "for a character known for encouraging people to sit on his lap."

"You make a good point, Ms. Tarth," Jaime looked up at her in mock sincerity, "And I certainly encourage _you_ to sit on my lap anytime you choose." As he'd hoped, the wench blushed. Her eyes seemed _especially_ sparkly, though, as she looked him over in his red suit.  He stood on tiptoe to whisper, closer to her jaw than her ear, "That's how it works, right? You sit on my lap and tell me what you want?" 

Moving closer to him, Brienne leaned down to whisper, "All I want," Jaime shivered and shifted his shoulders as her breath tickled in his ear, an odd quiver waving through the silicone belly, "Is for you to stop harassing me," Brienne looked pointedly into his eyes.

"Harassing you? As in 'a trip to human resources' kind of harassment?" He almost reached for her hand, "I don't harass you, Brienne. It's just for –"

"Fun?" Brienne huffed, in a tone that didn't tickle at all.

"La! What are you two whispering about?" Margaery trilled, "I must have my share! Intrigue? Secrets? Telling each other who you got for Secret Santa?"

" _Penthouse_ ," Asha announced abruptly, shouldering her way to the front and practically pressing herself against the doors. She squeezed out the second the opening was wide enough and was absorbed by a sea of sparkles before anyone else had left the elevator.

"Look! Chocolate fountains!" exclaimed Arya, grabbing the Tyrell woman's hand and leading her to the opulent buffet. Jaime heard Margaery shrilly cry, ' _The pie!_ ' before they, too, were lost to sight.

Jaime didn't move. He'd done something wrong, he could just _feel_ it. Which thing was it? Lap sitting? Harassment? Surely not the Naughty list? He rested his head on Brienne's shoulder and looked up through his lashes, "It's not harassment if it happens at a party."

"Uhh. Get out before the doors close." Brienne pushed him back with one disdainful finger.

"Let them close. We'll ride back down. You can come back to the North Wall on my sleigh and keep me warm until Christmas Eve," Jaime quirked an eyebrow at her. She pushed him toward the door and it slid back subserviently after bumping into him. Brienne followed him out and then strode right past him, her shoes clicking angrily as she left him behind.  "I'll even set Rudolph to guard the door!" he called after her. _Would that be considered 'storming' out of the lift?_

Jaime followed at a distance, nodding and smiling as half-drunk cries of "Santa! Santa!" rose around him. He walked into the crowd and the press of partiers made space for his passage, tugging at his sleeves and batting playfully at the fuzzy ball on his hat, obviously mistaking his pleasant smile as genuine. Dodging several hands reaching out to pat or tweak his belly, and not feeling jolly at all, he broke into a trot. _Now **that's** harassment. Not the friendly play-flirting he carried on with his tall wench_!

Brienne wasn't far ahead, dropping her Secret Santa present onto the growing pile. He waited until she was out of sight before adding his gift and following in the direction she'd taken. He soon found her, checking-in at the hostess table. 

Sansa Stark was manning it again this year, dutifully marking Brienne off on the list of Secret Santa participants. The list was his father's way of ensuring nobody blew off the company party; the stigma of missing the exchange and letting your assigned giftee down was known to be Bad for One's Career Advancement.

What Tywin didn’t know, was that Aunt Genna always kept several wrapped White Aurochs gifts hidden in a storage closet on the 36th floor. Santa-suit sadism aside, she'd never want to see anyone's feelings hurt by not receiving a gift. 

Brienne appeared to be waiting for him at the table, but Jaime walked fast, hoping not to exceed the socially allotted time for casually running into each other at the check-in table. He had no idea what the allotted time was, or even _if_ there was a specific amount of time, but he didn't want to risk Brienne walking away. Maybe whatever he'd done to annoy her earlier would magically disappear, without a prolonged period of him trying to guess how to make it right again.  

Jaime arrived at the table, decorated in tinsel and strung popcorn, and adjusted his hat, knocked askew from everyone fondling the puffball. "Good evening, Sansa," he said in his most jolly tone, "nice to see you at your post again this year. How many Secret Santas have we got?"

Sansa ran her finger haltingly down the column, counting by 2's. "Thirty four, thirty six, thirty eight, forty! That's two more than last year."

"Wow, that's going to be a lot of gifts to find by name in that big pile out there. I'm going to be one exhausted Santa."

"I'm sure you could find a couple of elves to help you," Brienne drawled, "Don't you think so, Sansa?"

"I can think of one or five people off the top of my head who would volunteer," Sansa leaned forward disapprovingly, "But you know it's against the game rules, Mr. Lannister, Hot Santa or not." 

"Wait - it was her idea!" Jaime pointed his finger at Brienne, "I didn't even _ask_ for elves." 

"Not out loud," Brienne said coolly, "I guess I haven't worked here long enough to know all the rules. I'm going to find somewhere to sit." She began walking away.  Jaime stood for a moment admiring the sway of her bottom under the blue satin of her dress, when he noticed that her steps were wobbly, trembling, even. She must be really upset with him this time. Was it the idea of nubile elves helping him deliver presents? Because –

Brienne's ankle buckled at her next step and Jaime was there instantly, catching and steadying her. Brienne clutched his arm tightly to steady herself, muttering inoffensive swear words under her breath.

"Hey," he asked with concern, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she said, letting go of his arm, "I just haven't got my FMN footing yet."

Are you dizzy? Light headed?" Jaime asked, ""You're not making any sense."  

"For gods' sake, Jaime, I'm just having difficulties with my shoes."

Jaime looked down at her amazingly high heels, his curious expression clearing suddenly as he looked up again and grinned at her, " _'FMN footing_ ,'" he repeated, chuckling, "Did you just admit that you're wearing _'fuck me now'_ shoes?" Jaime's cock twitched somewhere below his protruding paunch. To hear his stalwart Brienne admit to wearing anything that invited that sort of attention was of great interest to him. "I had no idea you even knew what 'FMN' meant, Tarth." 

"I had no idea that _you_ knew what it meant, Lannister, else I'd not have said it. They're just _shoes_." 

She stepped back and tugged absently at the hemline of her dress, the shy gesture drawing Jaime's gaze to her thighs like a magnet. He'd seen them before, of course. And more of them than this, that time she'd worn shorts at the team-building trip over last St. Baelor's Weekend. Though the memory of those pale, goose-fleshed legs had entertained him often enough in the months since, it was nothing compared to watching her trying, unsuccessfully, to hide them. So long, smooth in dark silk stockings, and elongated by the heels, which had him thinking _Fuck **Me** Now_. He barely remembered to look away from her legs before she could catch him staring. 

Jaime reached out to pull her arm through his. "Are you worried that I'll tease you about your FMN-ness?" He patted her hand where it rested on his forearm consolingly, "Because I certainly intend to. _All_. _Night_. _Long_." 

"Fan-fudging-tastic," she sighed, "I think I need a drink."  
  
"Champagne? There's some coming our way."

Brienne nodded and they each took a glass as the server paused with his tray. "I can walk on my own, Jaime. The heels just take a little getting used to, is all. They're not as easy to walk in as Ms. Tyrell makes them look." She hadn't yet withdrawn her arm, a small victory to Jaime's thinking, "Maybe you should try it sometime."

"If I manage to drink enough, I just might," Jaime said, looking down at her shoes again, "What size do you wear? You could wear my boots and –"

"If you're suggesting that my feet are the same size as yours –"

"I would _never_ say such a thing!" Jaime laughed, "What I was suggesting, though, is that if we both have something to drink, maybe relax a little…"

"I'll have you know that my feet are probably _bigger_ than yours, Lannister," she looked down at his black leather boots, "Those _are_ kind of cute, even with the atrocious buckles. Maybe we should trade."

"And deliver forty gifts while wearing those toe-torture chambers? No, thank you." He said, "But you just hang on to almost-young, possibly-hot, Saint Nik, I'll keep you from falling over.

"Possibly 'hot?'" Brienne squinted down at him. 

"What, you don't think I'm a hot Santa? My feelings are hurt, wench." 

"I didn't say – I meant – by the seven, Jaime, you are so needy sometimes!"

"Well, I think _you_ look hot, and I haven't even had a chance to properly ogle you in that dress yet," Jaime drained his glass. "Do you think you can stand up on your own for a minute or so, while I check you out?"

"Oh, you're hilarious," Brienne scoffed. "Just for tonight, do you think you could dial back on teasing me? I'd really appreciate it."

"But I _want_ to tease you, Wench," Jaime complained, "it's the only way I'll survive being trapped with all of these boring people."

"Please, Jaime," she said, her big eyes imploring. 

His actual stomach did flips. He thought of several things he could ask for in exchange for his good behavior; a kiss, a hug, to be able to take her somewhere private until she looked at him like that while begging for something else he had to give…

"What's different about tonight?" he asked instead.

"These gift exchanges, the party…they're difficult enough for me without you making it worse," She looked around at the crowd, many of them seemed to have noticed how close together they were standing, "You know I'm uncomfortable in crowds, and I'm sure to get something embarrassing at the gift exchange. Don't you remember last year?" 

Jaime had barely known her the year before, but his attention had been captured by how red her face had gotten when she'd opened her gift. Had she not liked it? Well, he was Santa this year, _her_ secret Santa. She'd like this gift.

"This year will be different," he promised her, "Hot Santa will look out for you."

Her snort wasn't very affirming. "Do you see any place for me to sit? You'll be busy handing out gifts. "

"We're sitting together," he informed her, "we need to. Solidarity, right?" Jaime looked around. Tyrion was lounging on a small sofa by himself. "Can you wait here without tipping over?"

"I'm not an invalid, Jaime. And it's not my first time in heels."

"But FMN heels? Are you experienced with _those_?"

"Jaime –"

"Finish your champagne. I'll get you something else and be right back." 

Brienne handed him her glass reluctantly. She looked like she didn't want to be left alone, but Jaime needed to talk to his brother. So far, the evening was playing out much as he'd hoped; chancing to meet her on her way to the party had been a stroke of luck. Now all he had to do was make sure he was sitting next to her for the gift exchange, and his plan would work out perfectly.

Jaime raised her hand from his forearm and kissed it. Her skin was warm and soft, and that little gasp of surprise at the touch of his lips stoked his imagination. Their eyes met briefly, before he hurried off.

Tyrion was wearing one of the ugliest Christmas jumpers Jaime had ever seen. "You do know that this is a semi-formal event?" Jaime asked, plunking down next to him.

"I'm wearing it with a tie," Tyrion yawned, "but if I'm lucky they'll throw me out."

"You know they won't," Jaime said, "remember that time you feigned food poisoning and father insisted you stay?"

"But I did have food poisoning, don't you remember? I barfed on his shoes right after the gift exchange."

"I assumed you'd stuck a spoon down your throat or something," Jaime said.

"Maybe I did, but I was still sick."

"Good to know." Jaime tried to change the subject, "I have a favor to ask of you tonight, and it's important –"

"Is that the big, tall girl from Marketing I just saw you standing with?"

"Yes, that's Brienne. She's –"

"Really, really tall."

"Yes, but she –"

"You spent a lot of time with her during that St. Baelor's Weekend, didn't you?" Tyrion gulped the rest of his gin and held his hand up for a server.

"I did. We got to know each other a little and –"

"Damn, Jaime, have you _seen_ her legs tonight? I'd like to climb them right up to heaven, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I've seen them, Tyrion."

"Really seen them, as in, taken a good long look?"

"Yes, Tyrion. She has gorgeous legs. Now, what I need –"

"You sometimes spend time with her at the office, don't you? Working on projects through lunch?"

"We do that sometimes," Jaime admitted, realizing that Tyrion was intent on needling him. If he wanted his favor, Jaime would have to ride it out. 

"Weren't her legs distracting, when you were working through lunch?"

"Maybe."

"Uh huh. And have you two worked late at night, too?" Tyrion smirked. Teasing Jaime about his lack of a sex life gave him a real sense of accomplishment for some reason.

"Only once or twice," Jaime remembered all too clearly how hard it had been to concentrate with Brienne lounging cross-legged on the couch in his office. He'd imagined her there more often than he was ready to admit, before managing to convince her that they needed to work late that first time. They'd been collaborating on the Tully Proposal and really had worked that night. They'd also laughed, shared a pizza – they agreed on the sliminess of mushrooms on pizza – and grown closer, friendlier. Jaime had been so horny being there alone with her that he'd been obliged to sit behind his desk for much of the evening. Business slacks were not as concealing as the Santa suit was proving to be.

"I knew it! You fucked her, didn't you?" Tyrion looked at him, gleeful. "No, wait, this is Jaime Lannister we're talking about. I bet you didn't even try to kiss her."

"Give me a break, Tyrion." He'd _wanted_ to kiss her, badly, but the time hadn't been right.

"Okay, okay," Tyrion laughed, throwing up his hands, "I'm just kidding. She's not your type anyway."

"Wait. What do you mean, 'not my type'?"

"For one thing, she's just a tad on the homely side, don't you think?"

"Well, she's..."

"C'mon, that welding helmet she received last year was appropriate. Woof."

"Huh? I thought welding was one of her hobbies or something. It looked like an expensive, solid helmet to me."

"You know her better than I do," Tyrion looked at Jaime, incredulous, "Has she ever mentioned welding?"

"No, she's never mentioned it." Jaime was thinking hard, _she lives in a second floor flat, where would she do any welding?_ Then it came to him like a gut punch. "Her Secret Santa gave it to her as a joke."

Tyrion nodded. "Now, I wouldn't call her _ugly_ …to her face." Then he laughed.

Jaime had his brother's shirt collar bunched in his fist so fast that Tyrion's laughter stuttered to a halt, sounding more like _hahaugnhh_ than _hahaha_. "Did _you_ give it to her?" Jaime growled, "I swear I'll hit you hard enough to make your head ring until next Winterfest, if you did." He'd reacted instantly, in raw anger at the anonymous cruelty the wench had suffered.

Tyrion made a few incoherent grunting sounds in reply until Jaime remembered to let go of his collar. "Look at me, Jaime," his brother said scornfully, "do you think I'm the kind of guy to make fun of someone else's looks? To their face, I mean?" 

"Yes." Jaime glanced over at Brienne, who'd drifted toward one wall. _If she heard any of that_ …

"Well, it wasn't me. This time." Tyrion adjusted his collar. "So you _do_ like her?"

"What if I do?" Jaime said, sounding like a sullen teenager.

" _Jaime and Brienne sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s_ -"

"For once in your life, Tyrion, could you not be such a troll?" Brienne was looking over at them with interest. She must have seen him grab Tyrion. "That could be your Christmas present to me, to just be a good brother instead of a troll for a night." She wouldn't think he was hurting the smaller man?

"After you roughed me up? In front of your _girl_?" Tyrion chuckled. Jaime could see mischief brewing in his eyes.

"I don't have much time, Tyrion, so help or not," Jaime pinned him with his glare, "I need this couch. Yes, to sit on with Brienne. Yes, I like her. Don't screw this up for me."

"Hey," Tyrion held up his hands, "I'm sorry about the 'ugly' comments. I didn't know. What do you want me to do?"

"Go over and tell her I'm waiting here for her," Jaime said.

"And then what?"

"Then get lost."

"And what shall I tell her is the reason for my departure?"

Jaime had already envisioned Tyrion as out of the picture and was already thinking about the next part of his plan. "What?"

"Isn't she going to wonder why I gave up the couch? Or are you _trying_ to be really obvious?" Tyrion sat up straight and said in a sing-song voice, 'Say, Brienne, my brother just confessed he has the hots for you and nearly beat me up so you could sit with him.'" 

"No. _Improvise_ ," Jaime said through his teeth. "Tell her you saw someone you knew. Dammit, she's about to leave." Brienne's shoulders had slumped and she was looking for an escape route. Did she think he'd abandoned her for Tyrion? "Go!" he hissed.

Tyrion stood up, made a show of adjusting his clothing, and marched straight over to Brienne. "Ms. Tarth," Tyrion hailed her, holding out his right hand. He'd pitched his voice loud enough to carry over to Jaime. 

"Mr. Lannister," Brienne said, shaking his hand firmly. 

Tyrion stood, holding her hand for too long and grinning up at her. Finally, she withdrew her fingers and looked questioningly over at Jaime. Tyrion turned his head to look also. And waved. _Shit_.

"Ms. Tarth, I have been charged by one Mr. Jaime Lannister with the task of asking you to join him on the sofa for the… _festivities_ to come." Back on the couch, Jaime groaned and put his head in his hands. Brienne said something to Tyrion in her less-carrying voice, and Tyrion chuckled. "I relinquished the spot to Jaime once he explained how dreadful it's going to be, sitting next to Santa Claus, with all of his getting up and down and ho ho hoing and all and so forth." Brienne said something else inaudible and Tyrion replied, "Oh, it could be very tiresome sitting there for you as well. You're welcome to come with me – I can assure you I'm the funner brother. What? It is too a word."

Brienne patted Tyrion's shoulder, made one more parting comment that Jaime couldn't hear, and began walking to the couch. She came slowly, each step placed with extreme care, her calf and thigh muscles bunching as she tried to conquer the heels through strength rather than balance. Sheer will brought her to stand in front of him, the hem of her skirt about even with Jaime's eyes. _If he slumped a little, he could see up_ … Brienne pivoted on one heel and dropped gracelessly onto the cushion Tyrion had vacated.


	2. Christmas Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne and Jaime's romantic tension rackets up a bit before the gift exchange.
> 
>  
> 
> **For Lena G**

The loveseat creaked as Brienne dropped onto it next to Jaime, who'd assumed a _this seat is taken_ position in the center of it. He hadn't planned it, but Brienne had been obliged to sit closer to him than she might normally choose, their hips and thighs so close together they rivaled Robert Baratheon's eyes.  Brienne wriggled to put space between them as the crevice between seat cushions became a chasm, rolling her back to the center and nearly into Jaime's lap.

"May as well give up, Wench. Even the sofa wants you to sit closer to me."

"You could move over," Brienne suggested, planting her feet on the floor and grasping the far armrest with both hands. She lunged for the opposite side with a small grunt. Her shoes, finding no purchase on the tile floor, promptly went sideways, taking her feet with them. 

Brienne slumped across the vacant half of the loveseat in apparent surrender and Jaime smiled down at her. "I could give you a little push," he offered. Would it be harassment to give her a light smack on that rounded bottom wedged up so snug against him? 

Brienne turned her head to look at him and grimaced, "Stop staring at my ass." She sat upright again, wedged so close now that she was practically sitting on him.

Jaime quirked an eyebrow at her, "I'm not staring. Your butt was just introducing itself." 

"Help me up, you pervert," Brienne squirmed until she could get between the Jaime and the backrest, and pushed. Hard. Jaime braced his feet and leaned back, trapping her. 

"Lannister!" Brienne growled. "Damn it all," She wrapped her arms around his chest, trying to squeeze the air out of him. Jaime, ribs creaking, reached down, hooked one hand under her far leg, and pulled it up toward him.

"Be careful, Tarth, you're exposing a lot of thigh right now." Her silk stockings were smooth against the skin of his palm, and Jaime knew that on several levels he was being inappropriate, unprofessional, and not terribly Santa-like. 

His hand on her leg and the short distance it would have to travel to unsnap the simple black garter belt peeking out from the rucked-up skirt was quickly making its way to the top of a list headed _All I Really Want for Christmas_. 

"Garter belts, Tarth?" He said through a dry throat.

"You got a problem with that?" Brienne wheezed from behind him. She'd stopped trying to strangle him, but her arms were still encircling his chest.

"No, they're nice." Something twitched. It wasn't his hand. "They're sexy, Brienne."

" _Right_. Would you please pull my hem down to cover them, seeing as I'm trapped."

"That's against my every instinct, sweetling," he said, though he gently covered the exposed garter.

"I only wear them because I can't find pantyhose that fit," Brienne said.

 _Is her voice a little tremulous_? _Give me a sign, Tarth_. Jaime imagined her opening his Secret Santa gift, and felt a tingle of fear. _I take it back; the only Christmas gift I really want is for you to like what I have to give you. Or at least not hate me for it…._

Brienne, sensing his distraction, gave him a shove. He flung out his hands, his palms hitting the floor with enough force to prevent him tumbling ass-over-head in front of everyone. He heard Brienne's laughter as she re-claimed her half of the sofa. Jaime sat back, chuckling, and looked over at her. 

And there it was; the laugh, the smile, the way she _looked_ at him. A frisson like electricity rushed like a current between them. She _had_ to be feeling it too.

The first time Jaime had experienced this kind of intense connection with Brienne had been during the St. Baelor's Weekend retreat. Though they'd barely known each other before, a camaraderie had sprung up between them when they'd been randomly paired during a corporate bonding activity called "Salt and Pepper." 

More activities had followed in which they sought each other out to avoid the stress and annoyance of being coupled with people they had no intention of bonding with, corporate or otherwise. 

They'd been excused from the Marshmallow Spaghetti Tower activity on the second to last day after volunteering to go on a supply run together. The afternoon had been cloudless and hot as they set off in the ancient green canoe, rowing slowly to the other side of the lake where the vehicles were parked. Jaime had made the suggestion that they stop and rest for a while and Brienne, no more anxious to finish the errand and get back for more "fun" had agreed. 

Jaime never could piece together how long they'd floated around out there that day; twenty minutes, an hour, a lifetime? How long does it take to fall for someone? They'd relaxed and admired the water mirroring the mountains and sky, and laughed at the ducks, who, somehow sensing there were snacks onboard, had surrounded them like a querulously quacking flotilla of fowl, refusing to leave until the last Cheez-It® was won, in a battle of beaks so fierce that Brienne compared it to the legendary Sea Battle off Fair Isle.

They'd let their fingers trail in the cool water and drank sodas and drifted, their bare feet sharing a plank in the middle of the canoe. The sunlight had been glimmering in Brienne's pale, messy hair and highlighting her sunburned nose. Jaime remembered her laughing at some half-assed joke he'd made, her eyes scrunched shut… He'd been staring, waiting for her eyes to open, already addicted to them.  

That was when it had happened. She opened her eyes, looked right into his, and his heart had flopped in his chest like a fish on a hook. It had taken Jaime a fraction of a second longer than it should have to recognize that ache in his chest and near inability to breathe were symptoms of a crush rather than an impending medical crisis. 

Nothing in his adult life had prepared him for the peculiar giddiness Brienne woke in him. The days of pulling a girl's pigtails and behaving like a playful asshole were well past - the pigtails part, anyway - yet he craved her attention, wanted to tease her and be teased in return, to send her anonymous mash notes and, someday, ask her to be his date for Homecoming like a lovesick teenager. 

A pleasant awareness of Brienne's physical appeal had been building since that first afternoon, but beyond a fleeting fantasy in the privacy of his tent, it hadn't been why he'd sought her company that long weekend. Once she'd won his heart and respect, of course, her desirability as a potential lover had only made Jaime's suffering more acute. Being sexually attracted to a woman wasn't unusual for him, but acting on it was. 

When they'd returned to daily life he'd had been able to put the girl out of his head for an entire month…

Well, three weeks, anyway. 

Okay, two and a half. 

Minutes. 

The truth was, Brienne hadn't been out of his head since that afternoon, though it was weeks before Jaime felt forced to leave his office lair and seek her out. His first, flimsy excuse to drop by her office in Marketing had been to ask her about Lannister Holdings social media presence. That had led to a 'business' lunch to discuss the issue. Twitter, Snapchat, and Facebook hadn't come up again from that day to this, if you didn't count them 'friending' each other on the latter.

Now, as they looked at each other across the little sofa, Jaime felt the same sweet ache he'd experienced in the canoe and dozens of times since, and wondered if her heart yearned for him as well…

"Cookies?" Aunt Genna stood over them with a red platter piled high with the treats, "Chocolate chip, fresh from the oven!" Jaime's aunt looked from one to the other of them, smiling, and held the tray closer.

Brienne hastily sat up, tugging at her hem with one hand while reaching for a cookie with the other. "Thank you, Mrs. Frey. Did you make these yourself? They smell delicious."

"Take more than one, dear," Aunt Genna urged, "You, too, Hot Santa. There are more baking."

Jaime took three or four from the tray, popped one in his mouth and chewed.  Brienne took another and looked around for a place to set it down.

"I forgot the napkins again, didn't I?" Genna chuckled, "I'll have an intern bring some out." She winked at them before moving on to the next group.

"Uh oh," the Wench held out her hand, frowning down at her remaining cookie and the smears of melted chocolate on her fingers and palm.  
  
"You need to eat them faster, Wench," Jaime took the still-warm cookie from her hand. 

Brienne opened her mouth to protest the theft, and Jaime fed her the cookie. She had no choice but to chew, but she did it indignantly. Jaime lifted her hand to inspect the smudges, surprising them both when he took her index finger into his mouth to cleanse it of chocolate. 

Brienne swallowed hastily and sucked in a breath, her eyes riveted to Jaime's lips. "Lannister…" she said, her voice gone husky. 

It had been a long while since Jaime had seen a woman looking at him the way she did then, and though he wasn't always the most perceptive of men, he felt certain she wasn't really angry; he knew _that_ look well enough. 

"Sorry," Jaime folded her fingers into her palm, "I just really love…chocolate."

Brienne put her hand primly in her lap and looked away, suddenly absorbed by the swanky garlands and baubles decorating the room. She swallowed again, perhaps still working on that cookie, "Didn't you promise me a drink earlier?"

"I did! Forgive me, sweetling." Jaime handed her his remaining cookies and stood up. "What would you like?"

Brienne looked at his cookies, eyes wide and considering. "Surprise me," she said, clearly still processing the surprise of a moment ago.

"My pleasure," he answered with a smile, "Guard my place, alright?" 

Jaime sauntered off to the open bar. Many eyes were upon him right then; hopefully noticing the Santa suit rather than the fact he'd just done something blatantly erotic to a co-worker. He was suddenly grateful for the bagginess of his trousers.

He got into the queue for booze behind Ramsay Bolton, the creepy little guy who ran the mailroom. Bolton ordered something called a "tail wagger" and staggered away, muttering something under his breath. 

"Two gin and tonics," Jaime told the bartender, "and don't skimp on the gin."

"And a whisky sour for me," said a voice at his elbow.

"Are you taking cuts now, Tyrion?"

"We're together," his brother told the bartender before grinning up at Jaime. "Did I just see you initiate foreplay at a company Christmas party?"

"Initiate…what?" Jaime feigned confusion; foreplay was exactly what it had felt like, now that he thought about it. 

"You know what I mean," Tyrion said, accepting his drink. "I was afraid you guys were going to combust from UST."

"UST? You know I hate acronyms, Tyrion."

"Unresolved Sexual Tension, Jaime. Gods, how _do_ the elderly manage without knowing these things?" 

"Where would I even use a term like that?" Jaime took his drinks and they returned to the circle of chairs and sofas, most occupied with excited and inebriated administrators. Spouses, dates, and Lannister Holding's lesser employees continued to mingle and enjoy the buffet and the dance floor, where a live band covered the most popular dance tunes of the previous three decades but not the current one.

Brienne was absorbed in rubbing chocolate from her hands with a green napkin, though she appeared to have missed a spot of it on her lip.

"Trade?" Jaime asked, holding out her drink.

"Trade? Oh, these." She took her drink with one hand and gave him the wadded napkins from her lap. "Hello, Tyrion."

Jaime left to find a wastebasket and came back to find Tyrion sitting in his spot, shoveling Jaime's remaining cookies into his mouth. "Making time with my girl?"

" _Your_ girl?" Tyrion feigned surprise, crumbs speckling his lips.

"Mine. _Up_." Jaime nudged him with the toe of his boot. Tyrion excused himself to Brienne, found an empty chair not far away, and sat down with his drink.

"Arya Stark came by with napkins," Brienne said.

"I know." Jaime leaned close, "You still have some chocolate on your lip, though."

"You're not planning to clean that off for me, too, are you?" Before Jaime could answer, the delicate pink tip of Brienne's tongue appeared and she swept it slowly along her upper lip. Her eyes seemed innocent as ever even as Jaime watched her pupils expanding, darkening the clear blue of them. "Gone?"

"Gone? Oh, the chocolate," Jaime felt light-headed, possibly from the uneven distribution of blood, and therefore oxygen, in his body at that moment. 

" _Jaime_? Is it gone?"

"No," he raised his hand, caught himself, and lowered it again. "It's just, um, on your bottom lip."

"Oh." She sat there blankly for several seconds before shyly turning to wipe her mouth on the back of her hand. "Did I smear my lipstick?" 

Jaime shook his head, the puffball on his hat bobbing. If everything worked out later, he hoped to be answering that question in the affirmative. 

" _It's time_!" The sound of Sansa Stark's cheery voice made both look up guiltily.  The redhead held up a glass bowl stuffed with folded paper strips, "All of our Secret Santas are here, so it's time to pick numbers!" 

"Almost time for me to go to work," Jaime sighed. Soon he'd be called upon to fetch gifts and make an appropriately jolly show of handing them out. If he were lucky, there would be plenty of trades, allowing him to sit next to Brienne between turns.  And when she opened _her_ gift…she wouldn't trade it, unopened, would she? That would ruin everything.

Jaime reached over and squeezed her hand before getting up. Setting her glass on the floor, Brienne rose as well. "Let me look at you," she said, gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear before adjusting the drape of his faux beard. Hands on hips, she stepped back and examined Jaime from the black boots up to his fuzzy hat before nodding in approval. "You just need one more minor adjustment," Brienne laid her palms on his belly and tried to shift it to the left. "Oh!" She backed away quickly, "Gosh, that feels real. For a second there I thought I'd just touched your actual stomach –" 

"Hey. I know I'm not a skinny as I once was, but –"

"Oh, get over yourself, Lannister," Brienne rolled her eyes, "Besides, a man having a little belly on him isn't necessarily a bad thing."

"Really? You mean I work out for nothing?" He raised his eyebrows, "So you like a man with a little gut?"

She shrugged. "I don't _dislike_ it. A little softness is kinda cuddly, don't you think?" She laughed at his expression, "Not to impugn your god-like abdominal muscles or anything." 

He was being toyed with, and he knew it. "So you like a little meat on a man? I mean, not so fat that he's got a dickie doo, but –"

"A dickie doo?" 

"You've never heard of that? Big saying down in South Westeros and Flea Bottom."

"But what does it mean?"

"It's when a man gets so fat that his stomach sticks out farther than his dickie do," Jaime paused to let that sink in, and as her eyes lit with laughter he whispered, "You wouldn't want me _that_ fat," quickly nudged his costume belly into place and walked away, grinning. 

"That's everyone!" Sansa announced, meeting Jaime in the center of the gathering and holding up the empty bowl, "Bring on the gifts!" 

Jaime cleared his throat and used his Public Speaking Voice, "Welcome to the annual Secret Santa/White Aurochs gift exchange. For those unfamiliar with how this works, I'll try to explain," Jaime gestured toward the metallic tree, "The Secret Santa gifts here get delivered in order of the number you just got from the lovely Sansa, our esteemed HR Director. Each gift delivered represent a 'turn' during which the recipient may unwrap and keep their hand-picked gift or trade it, unwrapped, for any open present in the room that you happen to fancy.

"If you decide to open your gift, the turn ends and the next gift is delivered. If you trade it, the turn continues and the person in possession of the unwrapped gift may keep it or trade it. If the gift is traded to a third person, they unwrap and keep the gift and the turn ends." Jaime looked around, smiling, "You can't trade for a gift you've just had taken away, known as the 'no take-backsies' rule. Everyone with me so far? Good. The exchange continues until every gift has been unwrapped and the last turn ends, and then whoever went first, to make it fair, has a chance to trade for any other gift in the room."

Jaime clapped his hands together and raised his voice, "Ready? Who drew number 1?"

"I did," said a familiar soft voice, and everyone turned to look at Brienne. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is a change in the number of chapters you see. Should be one more to go! Thank you to everyone that commented and kudos! You make my day. The gift exchange should be pretty funny, with appearances from all your favorite and not to favorite GoT characters, so stay tuned.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping to make this 2 chapters. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it didn't want to be. Reader comments, as always, are gratefully accepted!


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